Refractions
by Fairy.Thief
Summary: As light passes from one transparent medium to another, it changes speed, and bends... A story about when Artemis's parents met. Who they used to be, and who they almost became.
1. A Color Portrait World

This is my first attempt at fan fiction of any kind and my first real attempt at writing as well.

Edit: Thanks to **BlackOpal** [For all the support and encouragement. For allowing me to talk her ear off through every idea to strike me.]

**RyaniTenebrae** [For whipping this ill-formatted mess into shape. I have no doubts that you'll be a "real" editor someday.]

* * *

The show was long over, most of the guests having faded like the flash of the reporters' cameras.

Those that remained were there for a reason, scattered throughout the building, postures tense, waiting for the real game to begin. Focusing his attention to the opposite end of the room, he calmed his nerves by reminding himself that none of it applied to him, that he was just there on a technicality. It didn't work. Sometimes a technicality was all it took to completely ruin a plan. He wasn't where he should have been, but there would be time enough for that later.

Artemis watched for longer than he meant to.

The girl could have been any age; it was impossible to tell by looking at her. Her eyes slid from the work on the wall to the plaque that hung beside it and back again, much in the same way as those that observed it at the viewing; her features, however, held none of their same feigned interest or approval.

Hers was a look of disappointment.

Artemis moved to her side, acutely aware of the footlights casting lengthened shadow onto the marble floor as he passed them. He took in the painting for a moment before making any observation of the girl.

Finally, he spoke, never moving his eyes from the work.

"What do you think of it?"

There was no hesitation in her response.

"I expected more."

Somehow, that was funny. This simple girl spoke as if her review held far more merit than the award mounted on the wall.  
"The critics don't seem to agree." He stepped closer to the painting, fingers outstretched, as if thinking to touch the canvas. "The brush work is beautiful, and the composition is near perfect." He glanced back at her now, gauging the reaction.

"I don't see what's wrong with it."

Her shoulders tensed, but her voice remained understated. "I didn't say it was poor, just that I expected better. All it manages to express is sadness, and that's the easiest thing in the world to make a person feel."

"Well, discontentment is the time honored state of an artist. It's because of that devotion we're able to experience it."

"But why would anyone want to feel depressed?"

Realizing her last remark was sincere - not part of their debate - he paused, thinking it over

"Maybe it's because that's the kind of sadness that dissipates quickly. Maybe being able to summon and dismiss those feelings so quickly makes us feel we have more power to dismiss our own unpleasant emotions."

They were both silent for a moment.

He stole a sideways glance at her. "Still, you a have a very apt opinion. Where do you study art?"

She looked away. "My living room, mostly."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I just assumed..."

"That I was more qualified?"

"Well, if it's any consolation, I've seen people from backgrounds twice as qualified present points that make half as much sense."

She met his eyes now, a half smile playing at her lips. "Who are you to question the qualifications of my living room?"

"I was just about to get to that." He extended a hand.

"My name is Artemis."

In response, she just stared at him. She seemed to be trying to figure out whether or not he was kidding. Finally, she decided he wasn't.

"What a strange name."

"Trust me, it wasn't my idea. You know the custom is for you to give me your name before you begin insulting mine."

She gripped his hand. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm Angeline."

He returned her smile. "And what sort of painting are you working on, Angeline?"

She looked like someone that had just met a psychic and was totally unaware of their technique. That type of reaction always annoyed him.

"Your hands."

She glanced at her own open hand, realizing what he must have seen. Still, only the faintest specks of green remained beneath her fingernails.

When her eyes returned to his, it was as if she was looking at some unknown animal. "Whoa. Um, that's kind of freaky."

As he tried in vain to recall how he had been taught to handle situations like this, aware that each second passing only made it worse, his demeanor slipped slightly.

"Sorry. I, um, do that sometimes."

She shifted, crossing her arms behind her back. "It's cool, actually, that you're so tuned in." He felt a flicker of relief.

"Tell me about your painting."

"Oh, it's nothing much, I'm trying to..."

Suddenly, she broke off, her eyes moving from his face to the area slightly above and behind his head. He knew exactly what she was looking at, but decided just to wait for it, turning to watch the man approach.

"There you are." The man's words came in the tone of a relieved parent that had relocated a lost child.

Artemis halted the next inquiry before it could come, taking a step back and gesturing towards the larger man.

"Angeline, this is my bodyguard," Then, quickly trying to lighten the statement, "Who has apparently developed a sense for introductions."

The bodyguard, having long ago learned that his physical gestures were intimating, didn't offer his hand, instead waiting until she met his eyes, and holding them for a moment.

"My name is Daire. Nice to meet you." He addressed the boy again in the same breath. "I hate to be rude, but Mister Delaso is waiting."

Angeline seemed to be physically affected by this statement, her posture changing so quickly that the bracelets on her arm slid into each other and clattered like bells.

"You're here to meet Lisle Delaso?"

"Yes. In fact, I'm late. But I'll be sure to mention how fond you are of his work."

Artemis' smile gave away none of his apprehension.


	2. Headlights on Pavment

Welcome to chapter two, thanks for reading.

In the last chapter there seemed to be some confusion over the ages of Artemis and Angeline here, so in response to that, Artemis is 16, Angeline is 17. And some perceptive soul comments on it: Nope. Daire is not "The Major" that died on the FowlStar. I'm not replacing him, but you'll have to wait and see what I'm up to there. ;) Reviewers are loved.

* * *

Artemis had never understood how people got used to this.

He was seated in one of those rooms, the excruciatingly comfortable kind reserved for the important, feeling somewhat numb as the meeting drew into its third hour. He gratefully accepted another drink, glad to have something to occupy himself with. It wasn't that he was being excluded from the conversation, in fact, quite the opposite was true; these men were actively trying to engage him, and it was exhausting.

But there was a simple reason why: His father was not the easiest person in the world to get along with. The reigning assumption, apparently, was that if Artemis counted someone as worthwhile, his father would as well.

He wished them luck with that.

At that moment, he was enjoying a brief rest as someone recounted a story about their latest trip to Paris. In the last hour Artemis was relatively certain he had been quizzed on at least half of the artists to produce a piece within the last three decades, and he felt like he had been weakly summoning up textbook answers for twice that long. Some of them, after a certain point, may not have even been real artists at all, but simply invented names thrown in as an attempt to reveal him as a liar. This was a result of a poor answer to a seemingly harmless question earlier in the evening.

"Have you decided what you'll be doing for college yet?"

His first mistake had been to answer with something near the truth.

"Art History at Trinity, I suppose."

He didn't have any particular interest in art, but he did possess a keen interest in a certain professor of the subject. Of course, they clamped down on the topic, assured that it was the only thing of interest to the teen to which they could possibly hope to relate.

He was pulled from his daze by yet another question. It was Delaso himself who spoke, seeming to be sucking the last vestiges of energy out of the room to fuel his own perpetual momentum.

"Who would you say is the artist that has had the most impact on you?" The question was punctuated by the steady drumming of foot against floor.

It felt like a trick question. He decided to give it an answer to match. Artemis waited until the eyes of each of Dealso's peers were on him, caught in sudden a intense interest of his wine glass.

"I admire Joan Miro most. Though he possessed a grand audacity to label himself as a talented painter. He was a storyteller of the highest degree and managed to grant unmeasurable depth and meaning to paintings which lacked them artistically with his on explanations of their depth."

As a compliment came about his perceptiveness, Daire met his eyes with a warning look from his place by the door, but mercifully the double meaning was lost to the rest of the room. Artemis knew these people didn't care what he said as long as he was seated there, a physical representation of Delaso's connections to his family.

It felt good to slip from the air conditioned gallery into the warm night air. Artemis was on his way out to the car, Daire trailing behind him more closely than usual, allowing them to have the conversation it was obvious they'd be having eventually.

"Was that really necessary?"

"Not really," Artemis answered absently. The gallery's exterior, still bathed in brilliant white light, offered an exquisite contrast to the starless sky.

"Sometimes establishing contacts has to outweigh your personal sense of pride, Artemis."

His voice was gentle, but Artemis knew without looking that Daire spun the heavy gold ring on his right index finger slowly with his thumb as he spoke, an idiosyncrasy developed over the years to replace the emotions that custom forbid him to express. As Daire was opening the rear door of the vehicle for his employer, a voice rang out from across the lot.

"Hey! Are they finally done now? Feels like I've been out here forever."

It was the girl again, leaning against the side of a blue Maserati, styrofoam coffee cup in one hand, the toe of her strapped heel poised on the running board, like a ballet dancer.

Had she been waiting for him? It didn't seem likely, but with the gallery devoid of all but Delaso's party, the tear-down staff waiting in the wings and the gallery's curator who had stayed behind until the very last moment to meet the esteemed artist, no other option was quick to present itself. He crossed over to her, Daire following a beat behind.

For reasons he would later blame on the red wine haze, he asked the first question to pop into his head.

"Where did you get coffee?"

A hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth, and he wasn't sure if seeing it was worth the knowledge that she was thinking of him as _cute._

"Gas station, two streets down, I took off when it didn't look like this was ending anytime soon."

He was now focused on trying to recover from the fumble.

"You know, you never did tell me what you were working on."

She glanced nervously at the bodyguard standing sentry.

"I think it would take a while. You have a pen?"

Wordlessly, Artemis reached up, and a ballpoint was slipped into his hand. The girl accepted it as though it had just been summoned out of mid air instead of a someone else's pocket. She scrawled a number clumsily on the napkin that had been insulating the coffee cup, folded it in half, and handed it to the boy, the pen still in her hand. She met his eyes for the first time that night, turning the pen slowly between two fingers.

"Mind if I keep this?"

She had beautiful hands.

"Um, no, take it."

"Thanks."

As Artemis finally settled back, exhausted, into the leather upholstery of the Mulsanne Turbo, he caught Daire's gaze in the rear view mirror.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me, what is it?"

"She stole my pen."

He chuckled, closing his eyes. "I'll be sure you're reimbursed."

"Artemis?"

"Hm?"

"That coffee bit was awful, I hope you know that."

"Sometimes establishing contacts has to outweigh your personal sense of pride."


	3. A Chemical Romance

The next morning came far too soon.  
It was strange, he hadn't been home in months, but no matter how long he stayed away, it always felt like he had never left.

As he slipped into the work room, the the sharp chemical smell hit instantaneously, halting him just inside door.  
"A mask would help with that." His grandfather called from his place hunched over the sterile white table, "You're no good to me unconscious."  
Artemis crossed the room in six paces, and pulled on a disposable cotton surgical mask from a box on the table, taking a moment to observe his grandfather carefully dismantling an antique book with an exato knife while he set right the elastic bands meant to hold the mask in place, which where currently insisting on tangling with his hair.

"What can I do?"  
His grandfather pointed absently to the the cabinet on a near wall with the knife, "Oak nuts, and the smallest glass jar."  
He fetched them quickly, along with the stone mortar he guessed would be requested next.  
"Grind them right?"  
His grandfather gave no answer for a moment as he lifted the newly removed blank sheet from the back of the book, then nodded.  
"Yes, then move on to what's in the jar."  
For a few moments the room was silent outside of the scraping of the pestle against the stone bowl and the electric hum of the neon overheads.  
Artemis broke the silence as the opened the jar. "What is this anyway?"  
"Dehydrated wasp larva." His grandfather answered in a dismissive manner more suited to an inquiry about a grocery list.  
Artemis cringed internally, but didn't let this distaste show. "How much?"  
"All of it."  
He tapped out the contents of the jar with the pestle, "What are you working on?"

The man smiled, the florescent table lamp bringing out the lines at the corners of his mouth. "We, are reconstructing the the life of a legend."

Aren't we always? Artemis thought dryly.  
Over the years his grandfather had become increasingly predictable about the nature his forgeries.  
What were once bits of first draft manuscripts and undiscovered operas had given way almost entirely to the personal notes of historical figures.  
And once, in an extreme case, even part of the war journal of General Dorman O'Gowan, detailing a completely fictionalized two day account of the second world war.

"Who?"  
"I'm sure you can figure that out Artemis."  
Here was the teaching part, deconstructing his grandfather's logic.  
Artemis racked his brain for any relevant information.  
He recalled a recent collection of documents that had been donated to the Trinity Collage Archival Department.  
That's were the answer would be.  
He tried to recall the contents of the collection, but nothing stuck out as terribly important.  
Wait, wait. Yes. That had to be it.  
There was a draft copy of Kincora. James Clarance Mangan wrote that.  
It wouldn't be the author, that would be too obvious...  
You should know this, they used something about this as a talking point in Literature. He took an educated guess. "Someone that was connected to James Mangan?"

"Good, that's right, John Mitchel to be precise."  
John Michel, famous Irish nationalist.  
Artemis was taken aback by the statement. "The nationalist? But surely you're not working on anything regarding nationalism."  
His grandfather nodded quickly, "He edited Mangan's poetry when he was a young man...why shouldn't I be working on nationalism?"  
"Just seems a bit...controversial."  
"Controversy can be a powerful tool Artemis, it's exciting.  
When people are excited they're less careful about checking facts, but in any case you're right, that's not what we're doing here today.  
Certainly not a bad idea though."  
Artemis nodded, still preoccupied with untangling the scheme, "That's why the copy of Kincora then, but how does that tie to this?"

"I happen to know that document contains the only sample of John Mitchel's handwriting Trinity will have housed right now."  
They'll be eager to authenticate a document like this, so they'll pull resources as locally as possible."

Artemis slow smile was hidden by the mask as the pieces clicked into place. "So...they'll do a handwriting analysis on this one, using another forgery for the handwriting sample."  
He met his grandfather's watery blue eyes, they validated that the theory was correct,  
and a for moment Artemis was lost inside his head, working out the details, looking for cracks. Nothing came to mind.  
"That's.. brilliant."  
He smiled archly. "Well I do try."  
Artemis slid the newly ground powder across the table.  
"Don't give it to me." he retrieved a glass container and an eye dropper from a drawer beneath the table and handed them across.  
"Ferrous sulfate." The man explained, the lightness of his mood mixing oddly with the careful enounciation of a chemistry teacher.  
Scientific names had aways made Artemis nervous, with his grandfather there seemed to be a thin territory line between what was common and what could kill you.  
It gave him no end of distress that large chunks of the map explaining where exactly these lines were drawn happened to be written in Latin. He took a second to think what he was more fond of, his skin or his dignity.  
"Should I have gloves?"

His grandfather's mouth quirked in annoyance, but there was no animosity in his voice. "No, you're fine."  
He wished he had missed it, but at least the reaction seemed to trigger his memory.  
Iron Powder. It's just iron powder. He didn't bother to correct himself, it didn't matter if he remembered now.  
The only thing for it was to move on.  
Artemis transferred the contents of the mortar into a glass container and added in the sulfate slowly, mixing as he went.

His grandfather had gotten up, and was gathering more odd jars from various locations within the room.  
Faintly Artemis wondered if he actually organized these things.  
"Three drops Artemis, no more."  
He nodded, drawing out some of the clear liquid with the dropper as he spoke, "If it's something intended to be in John Mitchel's hand, how old is it then?  
Hypothetically I mean."  
"This one's about one hundred and forty years or so."  
Artemis couldn't stand it anymore. "But what is it?"  
A short, raspy chuckle. "An intercepted letter detailing a planned meeting with Miss Jane Verner, his eventual wife, if you didn't know, both families were opposed to the relationship. Thought it would make a nice story."

"You're becoming a romantic old fool."  
"Romantic perhaps, fool never." One of the jars was set on the table before him with a clack. "Gum arabic, add it now, just a pinch."  
Artemis knew that one, and retrieved it with his fingers without worry for their well being.  
His grandfather stood watching until it was added, then held out his hand for the glass containing the mixture.  
Artemis turned it over to him, glad he didn't have to be the one to add whatever it was his grandfather thought worthy of handling himself.  
He swiveled in the chair to see what it was, only to see his grandfather adding a tablespoon of bottled water into the concoction.  
"Why on earth couldn't I do that?" he blurted indignantly.  
"You could really, but add a bit too much to much and it renders the sulfate inactive, we'd have to start over. Didn't want to chance it. Also, I was feeling useless." He swirled the liquid demonstrationally before handing back the glass.  
"Keep it moving until it turns black."  
He nodded, swirling the liquid unconsciously while he puzzled out the next bit of his grandfather's plan.

He knew that you never found anything important yourself, that was the first rule. You had to get someone qualified to do it.  
His grandfather had any number of options on that front, at least half of his personal acquaintances where historians or better.  
"Who's the mark on this one then?"  
Gavin Herner, the curator of that show you attended recently, that's why I needed you to be seen there, in fact. "  
"But he's an art curator isn't he, would he be qualified?"  
The concoction was black now, he turned it back over to his grandfather.  
The man shrugged, in between striking a lighter repeatedly, "No, but he would certainly be able to contact someone that is.  
The more times a document changes hands the better, and from what I know of Mr. Herner he's an avid, if not overly possessive, collector.  
If he thinks he's seen this first, he'll want it."  
"So there's your sale. You've known him for years though, he was at our Christmas party last year.  
Surely he knows that you keep company with more qualified men than himself."  
Wrinkled hands pulled bits of the old paper expertly through flame as he spoke. " Were any of those men at the Christmas party? "Well, no."  
He added the resulting ash into the mixture. "Then he knows nothing. Never let anyone be sure of exactly how much, or who, you know."  
"What's that do?"  
"Makes the ink date correctly. It will take me some time to condor up the actual document, then it will still need to soak, I'll need the rest of the night, and maybe half of tomorrow depending."  
I'll need you again after that."  
"For?"  
"You'll be the one to deliver it."


	4. Stationary, Stationary

It was his father that came down the stairs the following morning, a hardcover book, wrapped in muslin under one arm.

The bundle came full into Artemis's sight as it was set it on the counter, just beyond his breakfast.

"As I understand it, I'm to tell you you're in charge of this."

Artemis pulled aside the cloth reading the tile silently_: Breviary Treasures, Odes of Anacreon Anacreontics._

_Anyone besides his grandpa would've gotten a first edition that someone had actually heard of._

"Where's Gran?"

I wouldn't know, you know how he is."

Artemis knew what his father _thought_ he was referring to.

His grandfather's wandering mind had been taking on physical forum more frequently lately,

what compelled the old man to go god only knew where at all hours of the day and night was anyone's guess.

Artemis only half heard as father wrote the behavior off as the beginning stages of a mental disorder.

He'd have to deal with that later, before his Grandfather's rebelliousness got him shipped to some retirement home in Hedgerow.

Because he did, in fact, _know how his Grandfather was_.

This was another test for him, and the old man had no intention of providing him with the answers.

"That's all he left then?"

His father nodded, "I'm sure you could leave it for another time Artemis."

The patronizing tone made Artemis slightly ill, he knew his father was the current patriarch of the Fowl family, but his Grandfather still had the right to be taken seriously.

Artemis inflicted his voice with a restrained astonishment, keeping his eyes on his meal, his eyes always gave him away.

"I take he didn't tell you what this is?"

"I don't like to interfere with my father's business. You tell me."

Just then a manservant appeared at the top of the stairs, the elder Fowl held up one hand, keeping him silent.

"Quickly would be best."

He met his father's eyes with a hint of defiance, "Newly uncovered letters from John Mitchel."

The revolutionary's name had the desired effect, the man's eyes went wide for a millisecond, exposing thinly veiled astonishment.

"I'm glad to see that he's taking himself seriously again."

He didn't sound glad. "You can handle this on your own?"

"I was given all the details while he was he was working. I'm perfectly capable." His tone was dismissive.

"Anyone who declares themselves capable usually isn't Artemis. I wouldn't make it it a habit."

/

Artemis was on on edge, despite himself, like he was going to get in trouble at any second.

He sat in a leather office chair carefully going through the lower drawers of the heavy oak desk.

His fingers barely brushed over files, office supplies and old paper back books, in a strange combination of trying to find what he needed and avoiding moving anything more than was absolutely necessary.

Finally he found it, behind a stack of manila envelopes, two rows of index card boxes, each stacked two high.

He pulled away two from the top row, glancing at the handwritten tabs that alphabetized them,

and quickly discovered that labeling the actual notes had been the summit of his Grandfather's organizational achievements.

The first box contained C through G the second skipped right to M through Q.

By the time he located the box with H's about half of the set was on the desktop.

_So much for not moving anything._

Actually, finding Gavin Herner's information was proving even more unnerving than going through the desk had been.

Largely due to the fact that, mixed among the bright whites of the newer index cards, were the faded yellows of contacts from his grandfather's youth.

They didn't look a day younger than the perfectly aged letter ironed between the pages of that book, and seemed to Artemis just as likely to crumble at a careless touch.

He dialed the number absently with the tip of the ink pen, oblivious to the small black marks this action left behind,

as he skimmed his notes for maybe the sixtieth time in the last three minutes.

Seconds ticked by between rings on little black clock on the desk, but the odd whitespace seemed to stretch on for minutes at a time.

Ring

Ring

Click.

"I'd like to speak to Mister Herner. Please tell him it regards Dimitry Fowl."

Several moments later someone else took the line, it was clearly Herner's voice, somewhat rough but holding an unmistakable cultured authority.

"Yes, who am I speaking to?"

Artemis kept his voice even, friendly, but clear that he was not intimidated.

"Mister Herner. This is Artemis Fowl, I would have clarified that before, but I thought we should both be spared the time your people would've spent trying to find my name among the list of callers you'll take personally."

"Oh, hello...er, Artemis. You'll have to forgive my oversight, I think this is the first time Dimitry has had anyone else contact me. But I know why you're calling, your grandfather is held over from attending the auction handling the estate of Michel Brair correct? We spoke about it shortly before he left."

Artemis put a quick check next to the part of his note that covered the auction.

"That's actually why he asked me to contact you Mister Herner." he gave what sounded like a thoughtful pause.

Making Herner request information would start to set his thinking to the idea that he was to be a part of this.

"Yes?"

He acquired a book, damaged, but noted as having several unknown pieces inside of it...apparently the price didn't merit the risk for anyone else. But you know how impatient he can be, he's sent it ahead to me with instruction to ask you to if you would take a look at it."

There was a pause.

Artemis presumed it was caused by Herner deciding whether or out he was going to keep allowing them to believe his status as a gallery curator enabled him such expertise.

_Apparently so_.

"Could you have someone bring it to me?"

"I don't think he would approve of my letting someone else handle it Mister Herner, but I'd be glad to deliver it."

Now that Artemis had himself thoroughly cast as the subordinate, he added to the man's false confidence:

"Where would it be convenient to met?"

"Do you have plans for lunch?, I have a table reserved at Bewley's for three today, you could join me if you'd like."

"That would be fine Mister Herner, thank you."

"One question though?" The words came swiftly, before he could hang up the receiver.

For half a second, Artemis's heart seemed to halt in his chest, and he internally damned himself for being so cocky.

He managed to say the next words without letting the feeling into his voice: "Yes Sir?"

"What's keeping Dimitry in England?"

Artemis's eyes searched the scrawl of his notes frantically.

Realizing, horrified, that he hadn't anticipated this.

"He ran into an associate at the auction, who insisted he say on for a few days visit."

The lie came smoothly.

"Anyone I might know?"

He flipped desperately to the next page on the pad looking for anything helpful and found one of the yellowed cards had slipped into it.

Aware that he was running out of time to provide an answer, the read the name off.

Calvin Thomas, I believe." he silently prayed it was the name of some obscure drinking buddy and not an underworld celebrity he had never heard of.

Herner sighed, " I should introduce him to an archivist I know that lives out that way. He could have saved himself all this trouble."

_He's using it as an opportunity to talk about his contacts, that means you're still in the clear._

It was all Artemis could do to suppress a sigh of relief.

"Alright then, three."

Goodbye, Mister Herner."

He hung up the phone, adding another note to the pad:

_Handling the Herner deal myself._

_For now you're still held over England visiting with a friend, (Calvin Thomas, I was in a rush.) so stay out of sight._

That should take care of his wandering for a while at least.

_Also if Dad brings it up, you're working on Nationalism._

He added the last four words with a flourish_._


End file.
